


remember me love when i'm reborn

by pansexual_intellectual



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Established Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Fred and George Weasley plus Louis is like... unholy terror triplets, Harry Styles Is Harry Potter, Harry Styles is Whipped, Hufflepuff Harry Styles, I love that tag, Louis Tomlinson Calls Harry Styles Pet Names, M/M, Rebirth, Slytherin Louis Tomlinson, Temporary Character Death, The Sorting Hat, but i guess the people in the original universe were sad so that's sad, i mean like.... rebirth, unlikely to be completed anytime soon i just wanted to publish this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:27:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28464558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pansexual_intellectual/pseuds/pansexual_intellectual
Summary: More importantly, he remembers the car crash.  Remembers looking into Harry’s green, green, eyes, a soundtrack of wailing sirens to their last breaths.  Remembers the pain so absolute he could not compute it, remembers pushing towards Harry with the last vestiges of strength, curling in his lap and gasping.  The frantic edge to Harry’s gasping breaths, we never got to come out we never had a wedding we never had kids oh God no in the ragged inhales, the hiccuping exhales.  “Harry,” Louis had exhaled, tired.So tired, it was ten in the morning and he was so tired. There was blood gushing, he felt worn-thin, papery and almost-gone.  “Harry.  Love.” He’d whispered, and he couldn’t say anything else because it hurt too badly, but Harry understood. Harry always understood.Simply put, he remembers dying, slowly and painfully and tragically.Which is why it’s so terribly odd when he opens his eyes to his Mum’s face, younger and uncreased by years of worries.Harry realises pretty early on that he’s Harry Potter.Or: the HP rebirth fic no one asked for
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 46
Kudos: 29





	remember me love when i'm reborn

**Author's Note:**

> #1, in the… ah, original universe (aka canon-verse aka reality) H and L were together and loving husbands or whatever and got hit by a car on their way to buy more chicken, mozzarella, parma ham, and potatoes or whatever. Let’s call that universe Reality. Now, in Reality everyone freaks out and mourns and the larries sob themselves to sleep thinking about how bittersweet it is that they finally got larry confirmation but at what cost? AT WHAT COST??? Now, meanwhile, the universe (the OG-est of all OG larries) has a good old laugh and deposits H and L’s souls in babies in a very different universe. Let’s call it AU.
> 
> #2, so Harry is now Harry Potter. He has all of his old memories and musical skill (although his vocal chords haven’t adjusted and his fingers are tiny and have no calluses). And also he still looks like his old self, not Daniel Radcliffe, because come on. Guy with wild famous hair, green eyes, named Harry? How could I pass up that opportunity? Now, Louis is also reborn with all of his old memories, but he’s reborn in what he thinks is his old life. Jay, Lottie, Fizzy, Daisy, Phoebe, Mark etc etc. He freaks out but eventually thinks: well okay I just have to get to the X Factor and that toilet and I can find Harry and it will all be okay again. Little does he know, he’ll in fact be drafted into Hogwarts lol. Also, Louis is still two years older, so when H is 11 he’s 13. ALSO, I know Harry Potter in canon was born in 1980 or whatever but in this AU the entire series was moved up timeline-wise so everything works out. Harry Potter was born July 31st, 1994.
> 
> #3, so in Reality, HP book series existed, although neither Louis (not a big reader as a child) and Harry (didn’t like that everyone always compared them so refused to read them out of defiance) are very familiar with the series. Basically, don’t expect them to defeat Voldemort with all of their secret interdimensional knowledge, because Louis still calls the fifth book “the-order-of-the-flaming-chicken-bird-hey-harry-what’s-that-bird-that’s-on-fire-called’. Obviously in this AU verse the HP books don’t exist and neither does J.K. Rowling (yeah, I went there) but it’s such a slight difference that Louis is unlikely to notice it. 
> 
> Harry, because he’s living with the Dursleys, realizes pretty early on that he’s in the Harry Potter world. The only useful tidbits he really remembers is that there’s a giant man coming to get him at 11, he can talk to snakes, there’s a magical castle/magical world with prejudice and discrimination and a snakey bad guy called Voldemort, and that there was some big kerfuffle with a rat, a dog, and a great betrayal.  
> #4, they’re husbands and in love but physically, children. Do. Not. Expect. Underage. Sex. In fact, no smut at all occurs here. They will eventually reassume their old physical relationship, but for now the only thing that occurs on camera is kissing.
> 
> #5, Harry doesn’t consider himself abused by the Dursleys, because he’s mentally an adult, even if he understands at a basic level that what they do to him is abuse. He is wrong. Adults can suffer from abuse as well. 
> 
> #6, we will not discuss Freddie at all. He is an innocent child and a minor and I will not include him in this fic. :)

When Louis is thirty years old, he gets hit by a car and dies, holding the love of his life’s hand. Oh, it’s all suitably tragic. Louis has vague memories of turning to Harry, bleeding and horrified, and curling into him, thinking  _ well, if I had to die _ … 

He also remembers thinking gleefully that Niall would be sorry for beating him at Monopoly last week. And less-gleefully that his family didn’t deserve another tragedy, fuck’s sake.

More importantly, he remembers the car crash. Remembers looking into Harry’s green, green, eyes, a soundtrack of wailing sirens to their last breaths. Remembers the pain so absolute he could not compute it, remembers pushing towards Harry with the last vestiges of strength, curling in his lap and gasping. The frantic edge to Harry’s gasping breaths,  _ we never got to come out we never had a wedding we never had kids oh God no _ in the ragged inhales, the hiccuping exhales. “Harry,” Louis had exhaled, tired. So tired, it was ten in the morning and he was so tired. There was blood gushing, he felt worn-thin, papery and almost-gone. “Harry. Love.” He’d whispered, and he couldn’t say anything else because it hurt too badly, but Harry understood. Harry always understood.

Simply put, he remembers  _ dying _ , slowly and painfully and tragically. 

Which is why it’s so terribly odd when he opens his eyes to his Mum’s face, younger and uncreased by years of worries. 

“Mum,” Louis tries to gasp, only it comes out as a warbling cry. “Oh, Louis, dear.” Jay Tomlinson sighs, and then, his young body unable to handle the terrible grief and confusion, he passes out.

He learns to deal with it, eventually. The pain of losing an entire  _ life _ . It’d been a good life- he was a world-famous popstar, married to the love of his life, and was all in all ridiculously happy. The life of a baby in comparison was shockingly limited- what was potty-training when he had conquered world stadiums before twenty-five? When once-upon-a-time, everyone in the world had known his name? When he had once been able to turn over in bed and see the other half of his soul, perfectly vivisected and tucked into another human being?

(That’s what’s hardest to deal with, if he’s honest. Losing Harry.)

But he gets over it. Louis has always been- well, not an optimist. He’s always been a rather pessimistic realist, but even he has to acknowledge that in all likelihood, if he does this right he’ll be able to meet Harry once again in an X Factor bathroom, pee and awkward flirtatious conversations and all. 

Louis lives a bit of an odd life, for a child of his unabashed social prowess. He is ridiculously gifted for a child his age (which is new- he’s never been known for his book smarts, but he  _ had _ graduated sixth form, even if he’d failed his A Levels. He remembered how to read a bloody book and how to balance a fucking chemical equation, for Christ’s sake) and spends most of his time tinkering with an old guitar and a diary.

Most of the time, what he’s doing is writing down all of their songs from memory- from Up All Night to Made In The A.M., he tries to note all the lyrics down and learn the guitar chords. He, crying quietly, manages to get down HS1 and Fine Line into the thin reams of college grade paper. His own albums are almost an afterthought.

Alone in his room, he does vocal exercises, trying to get his voice to work the way he wanted it to. Given that he hasn’t quite reached puberty, it doesn’t work out that well. He takes to reading old theoretical texts about time travel and relativity- the old Louis would have scoffed, but if he’s to have a prayer of figuring out exactly what the fuck happened to him, he knows what he has to do. It takes him a while to understand scientific jargon, but he has time. He has nothing but fucking time. 

Eventually, he’s worked his way through most of Kip Thorne’s book on time travel and black holes, and he’s begun to actually enjoy it, God forbid. He gets his glasses much earlier in this universe, and tends to hole up in his room with thick books from the library, which he hadn’t even realised existed in his old universe.

Eventually, he realises that not all of the books he’d been reading relate strictly to time travel, and that he’s actually started to enjoy reading. It’s also around this time Louis realises everyone is under the impression that he’s some mystical genius prodigy child. 

Louis is, to everyone else, an “odd child”. He’s gifted, clever and talented- musical, too, with his guitar and the songs he was always singing, which they’d eventually figured out had to be original - but not an introvert. There’s something guarded about him, something implacable and distant in that slanted blue gaze, but he’s also loud and boisterous, flamboyant and exuberant. He’s mature for his age, always willing to help change a nappy or two, and curses like a sailor, which Jay is appalled at. He’s a  _ boy _ , a marvelous one, Jay knows, but there’s always been something- well,  _ different _ about him.

(It’s in the coldness of his eyes but also the way the guitar seems to hum in anticipation before he even touches the pads of his fingers to the strings, how the football goes inhumanly far with one kick of his hardly-preteen leg, how once Louis was furious at his geography teacher and she’d fainted in the middle of class, eyes rolling into the back of her head. It’s in the way he’d once, while escaping bullies, vanished for a solid two hours. Later, he swears he was there all along, but Jay knows her son and knows when he’s lying.)

No one is really all that shocked when Minerva McGonagall, prim and steely-spined, gray hair smoothed in a dour chignon, comes to call.

“I’m a  _ what _ ?” Louis asks incredulously.

“You’re a wizard, Louis.” Minerva McGonagall repeats for the sixth time.

“What, like Harry Potter?” Louis asks dumbly.

McGonagall stiffens. “Where did you hear about Harry Potter, young man? I was under the impression that your family was Muggle.”

“From… the books?” Louis says, confused.

“You must have come across some wizarding books… I apologise, I was just taken aback. Most Muggle families have had no contact at all with the wizarding world.”

“Oh,” Louis says, faintly. He clutches the parchment, where his name is emblazoned on the front in curling emerald font.  _ Dear Mr. Tomlinson, we are pleased to inform you… _ “Right.”

  
  


They go to Diagon Alley, and Louis stares at the bizarre sights, feeling utterly and horribly out of depth. This was uncharted territory- how was he to find Harry if he was a fucking  _ wizard _ ? Hogwarts wouldn’t let him drop out for the X Factor, would they?

“I will see you at the Sorting.” McGonagall says, slipping him a rare smile and departing on a cloud of crisp violet-water scent.

“Bloody, buggering, wanking, fucking,  _ fuck _ .” Louis says, with feeling.

“Louis William Tomlinson!” 

* * *

Harry realises pretty early on that he’s Harry Potter.

It’s a shock, of course it is. When he’d closed his eyes, he’d been bleeding to death with Lou in his lap and when he’d opened them, he was a baby and horribly Lou-less.

It’s odd at first, being rocked to sleep by Lily instead of Anne. Then there’s a tall spectre of a man, phantasmagoria creeping along the wallpaper, green light and a scream.  _ Oh, _ Harry thinks dully. He knew how this went, dying. Maybe he’d wake up in a universe with Louis again, and everything would be infinitely better. Cuddling with a sleepy Lou in the morning, who was sure to be grumpy and pissed-off that Harry hadn’t gotten up and made him a full English yet. Pressing an infuriating attractive Louis into the wall and kissing him quiet. Louis on his lap, giggling into his neck. Louis insulting him. Louis calling him a curly-haired, stupidly tall, Sasquatch-cunt.

He’s so distracted thinking about Louis that he doesn’t notice the jet of green light aimed towards his forehead, or the fall of the snow-faced monster. Louis in  _ braces and those red trousers _ , fuck. Louis pretending to be a kitten on the Late Late Show, which he always got pissed off at Harry for remembering. Louis cursing a blue streak. Louis cuddling Daisy or Phoebe. Louis with Ernest or Doris, Christ. Louis reenacting the chicken-stuffed-with-mozzarella-wrapped-in-parma-ham-with-homemade-mash story again. Louis pissing off Simon Cowell. Louis onstage, curled around the microphone and singing his heart out. Louis naked, miles of golden skin and his  _ arse _ . Oh God, Lou’s  _ arse _ .

By the time he realises that he’s been tucked in a giant flying motorcycle and wow, this story is starting to feel oddly familiar and he’s maybe Harry Potter, he’s already gotten himself so worked up and upset that he passes out.

The next few years of his life are… well. He doesn’t like to use the word ‘abuse’, because he’s technically an adult and thus his formative years weren’t disrupted by trauma but- well. It  _ is _ abuse, is the thing. Harry’s aware that it’s abuse, even if  _ he _ isn’t abused.

He’s never closely read the Harry Potter books, but if he ever gets back to his universe he’s going to publicly rip J.K. Rowling a new one, because seriously? Getting beaten and tossed into cupboards by the scruff of his neck? It’s not  _ fun _ .

He occupies himself with trying to find a guitar. He skulks around the Little Whinging’s charity store after school and steals pocket money, pound by pound, from Vernon’s wallet (he has principles, but generally he’s willing to forgo morality when it comes to music and the Dursleys). Eventually, he is able to obtain a beat up guitar with a few strings missing. Harry’s not fucking stupid, he knows he can’t bring it back to Privet Drive. 

Instead, he hides it in a hollow log on his walk to school, and practices in the music room on breaks.  _ Sweet creature, _ he sings, voice still high and unpracticed but thinking always, always, of Louis. He finds an old record store and spends his days there, surprising the owner with his expert handling of the vinyls. He listens to Fleetwood Mac records constantly, thinking woefully of Stevie.  _ You know, I used to know her _ , he finds himself wanting to say to Mr. Bertram, the aging record-store owner.  _ She came over to my house around midnight and listened to my album and said it was my ‘Rumors’. Stevie Nicks.  _

He tries to think of the magic he supposedly has, but he can’t really do anything with it. When he’s angry, he feels a sort of rush take hold of him, electricity skating along the inner walls of his veins, but he can’t figure out how to purposefully direct anything.  _ Knock-knock _ , Harry says to the walls of his cupboard after one such episode.  _ Who’s there _ ? He imagines Louis saying, looking bored and disdainful but oh-so-fond.  _ You know.  _ A sigh.  _ You know who?  _ Imaginary Louis says, looking supremely contemptuous.  _ Exactly! Avada Kedavra! _

He has more of these, all of which he imagines Louis will hate.  _ Why does Voldemort prefer Twitter to Facebook? Because he has followers, not friends! _

_ How are Harry Potter’s best friend and the pot he uses to make Potions the same? They’re both cauld ron! _

Except he is kind of Harry Potter, and he doubts he’ll be befriending Ron Weasley, so. 

_ Which side of a centaur has more hair? The outside! What do you call two Quidditch players who share a room? Broom-mates! _

There’s a pause, in which Harry’s Imaginary Louis dissolves like fine grains of sand before his eyes, and then he’s bursting into horribly loud, messy, sobs, picturing Louis rubbing his back and saying  _ you always were an ugly crier, Hazza. _

He thinks he’s been doing well, all things considered.

  
  


When he turns eleven, he slips the letter into his shirt (his ribs are slightly aching from this morning’s dust-up but he’s fine, everything’s  _ fine _ ) and replies with a ballpoint pen and a piece of notebook paper, which he hands to a friendly looking owl on his walk home. 

Soon, Hagrid is bursting down the door of Privet Drive and confusing Dudley for Harry and cursing Dudley with a pig’s tail, just like in the stories. Harry blinks, forces a smile, and goes to Diagon Alley with Hagrid. People gawking at him, asking for autographs- nothing new, really. He smiles, shakes some hands, signs some autographs for people’s kids. It’s the most familiar part of this life, really.

“Wow!” Harry says, trying to be enthusiastic at the piles of gold Galleons. Isn’t there some special Stone that Hagrid’s supposed to be picking up right now?

Well, that all happens and then he’s being dropped off back at Privet Drive, his trunk and ticket and all. He slumps back to his cupboard after negotiating a trip to King’s Cross on the right day. Dudley’s still pig-tailed, and Harry can’t help feeling bad. Hagrid really shouldn’t have done that- whatever Uncle Vernon said wasn’t  _ Dudley _ ’s fault. Really, none of this was Dudley’s fault- he was conditioned to be spoiled by Aunt Petunia, and being raised with such a lack of morals was almost worse than the treatment dealt to Harry.

“Another shit month, then.” Harry sighs to the walls, and closes his eyes.

* * *

Louis enjoys Hogwarts, as much as one can when you’re possibly permanently estranged from the love of your life.

He’s the only hatstall that year, but in his defense, it’s lovely to chat with someone who knows that he’s technically from another dimension. He and the Hat talk for a bit about music, and then about football and whether or not Doncaster Rovers have a chance in hell this season, and then they get along with the Sorting. He gets Sorted into Slytherin- the hat considers Gryffindor and, for a short period of time, Ravenclaw but eventually decides on green and silver, saying  _ Good luck, Mr. Tomlinson.  _

Louis doesn’t consider why until he starts hearing the word ‘Mudblood’ being tossed around, until he wakes up with mud in his bedsheets and chicken blood streaking his trunk. His quills break, his ink vanishes as soon as it dries.

Louis is technically decades older than them. Once upon a time, everyone in the world knew his name. He’s negotiated contracts with Syco, blackmailed Simon Cowell, and released award-winning albums. He’s lost his mother and sister and bled to death with the love of his life.

Simply put, he doesn’t take shit from fucking  _ anyone _ , okay. He steals to the library and learns cleaning charms, practicing ‘ _ Evanesco _ ’ over and over on his stained bedsheets. He learns jinxes and counterjinxes, healing charms and curses. He wards his bed with highly illegal experimental blood magic. It’s almost a game: how much he can piss off the prefects, the “purebloods”. How much he can get away with.

The next time a pureblood tries to muddy his sheets, they don’t get away so easily. (The phrase ‘ _ I’m a fucking cunt’ _ emblazoned on their face in unriddable cursed ink for a month is fair payback, Louis thinks.) 

They get used to him eventually. They don’t really have a choice: anyone who crosses him soon finds themselves publicly humiliated one way or another. (Louis got enough shit for his sexuality; ‘Mudblood’ is just another slur.)

The professors are appalled by his foul mouth and awed by his prowess at Charms and Transfiguration. He’s decent at Herbology and absolutely shit at Potions (it doesn’t matter how perfectly he follows the instructions, the potion always ends up lime green and belching noxious gas. He and Snape have a very mutually antagonistic relationship, okay). He’s also insanely good at Quidditch, and is the first first-year in a century to score a position on the Hogwarts team (Chaser).

He makes friends- Violetta Parkinson, who’s pretty and bitchy and all in all, reminds Louis a lot of himself, and Olivier Shafiq, who’s clever and introverted and is always willing to discuss how the laws of magical physics relate to time travel (as it turns out, adding magic to the equation is  _ fascinating _ . If only Kip Thorne could have a look at Time Turners. And factoring in the idea of wormholes and so-called “wizard-space” which allowed for an object’s inner dimensions to be larger than its outer dimensions- well, it made for wonderfully complex debates at dinner, often resulting in the other Slytherins staring agog at their mashed potato demonstrations).

He and the Weasley twins get along quite well, if only because of their shared propensity for mischief. When Vi and Olivier are otherwise occupied, Gred and Forge can always be reliably counted on to provide entertainment. Together with the Marauders Map and a steady supply of Zonko’s products, they complete a series of pranks that set “a new standard, gentlemen, a new horizon” for Hogwarts mischief, including a forty-seven day prank that involved turning back all of the clocks five minutes at a time for almost two months.

He even attains honorary Weasley status, and is invited for Christmas. Their brand of chaos is one who he is well-used to, if only with sisters instead of brothers. Once, summer after second year, they get together for brunch. This results in a period of merry havoc, Lottie terrorizing Ron, Fizzy and Ginny melding into one girl blob (he’s pretty sure Fizzy has magic, they’ll see when she turns 11), Daisy and Phoebe competing with Gred and Forge for ‘coolest twins’, and Arthur and Mark chatting about cars. Jay and Mrs. Weasley get on very well, and resolve to keep in contact through owl post.

It’s good, if not perfect. Vi, Olivier, and the twins know by now that he skips all his classes on February 1st and September 28th, even if they don’t know why. 

He starts his third year in relatively good spirits. 

On the train ride, he hears something that he thinks is the opening chords to ‘Sweet Creature’ and nearly jumps off the train in fright, but it’s fine. He greets the thestrals (he’s been able to see them for as long as he’s gone to Hogwarts) with a cheery tip of his nonexistent hat, gets in the carriage, and settles in to watch the Sorting.

“I hear Harry Potter is coming this year,” Montague hisses, and Louis flinches reflexively at the name ‘Harry’.

The Sortings go by easily. A pointy blonde Tom Felton-lookalike with unfortunate hair decisions gets into Slytherin, along with two lumps that Louis suspects got into Slytherin for lack of morals, not cunning. 

Then: “Harry Potter”. The Great Hall quiets itself. Louis prepares himself to see a tiny version of Daniel Radcliffe.

There’s a brief moment of silence, just enough for everyone to fidget uncomfortably, and then there’s a head of dark curls trotting towards the Sorting Hat, and- curls.  _ Curls _ . Curls, and then it’s Harry,  _ his _ Harry, Harry Styles. Trotting towards the Sorting Hat. 

Louis makes a soft, involuntary, noise- a noise of shock and relief and disbelief and want and overwhelming love, love, love. There’s something breaking and blooming in Louis’ chest, where the lines of love and grief converge. Harry.  _ Harry. _

* * *

Harry’s walking to the Sorting Hat, which looks intimidating and burlap. There are so many eyes on him; he’s had stadiums watching his every movement. This is nothing- except maybe it’s something, except this is a new life, kind of. 

It’s not fair, Harry thinks just as the burlap rim of the Sorting Hat settles over his forehead, screening off the world from view. He breathes in; it smells like wet fabric, soil, and something warm and spicy; ancient heathen perfume.

_ Hello, Harry Potter _ , the Sorting Hat says, sounding amused.  _ Or should I say, Harry Styles? _

Harry blinks.  _ Either is fine _ , he thinks, careful.  _ And what should I call you _ ? 

_ No one’s asked me that in a long, long, time _ , the Hat says after a brief pause.  _ My names have been many, but Godric called me Dubheasa. _

_ Dubheasa, _ Harry thinks, and then, because his mum (Anne, not Lily. He knows that Lily died for him, but Anne lived for him, raised him. Lily and James- they are names foreign names to him) taught him manners,  _ lovely to meet you. _

_ I could say the same, Mr. Styles, _ Dubheasa says, gently. He pauses.  _ Hmm. Now, we can rule out Slytherin for you. _

_ Hey _ , Harry thinks briefly. And then:  _ Isn’t that the bad house? _

Dubheasa sighs, sounding aggravated.  _ Your interdimensional biases are not exactly accurate, Mr. Styles. Slytherin is and will remain a proud House of Hogwarts, no matter its political affiliations. _

_ Oh _ , Harry thinks, feeling bad.  _ Sorry. J.K. Rowling didn’t do the best job. I’m sure Slytherin is great. _

Suddenly, he’s curious- what must it be like to be a  _ hat _ ? How does he Sort students if he doesn’t know what it’s like to be one?

_ Hey, what House would you be in if you could Sort yourself? _ Harry thinks.

There’s a short pause, and then the Hat is breaking into loud, unrestrained cackles- audible to the students in the Great Hall. There’s some uncomfortable shifting, and Harry shrinks further into himself, and then straightens his spine, unfolding. Fuck’s sake, he once tripped on a loose bit of flooring and fell on his ass in front of a hundred thousand people. Nothing will ever be embarrassing when compared to that.

_ No one’s ever asked me that before _ , Dubheasa says,  _ but I would say Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. _

_ Interesting. What do you do during the school year? _ Harry asks, next. He knows he’s being rude and holding up people’s time, but hey, when else is he going to ask a magical sentient hat these questions?

_ I can send my consciousness into places besides the corporeal form I reside in. Wales is lovely this time of year, _ Dubheasa answers, and that makes so much  _ sense _ that Harry actually giggles.

_ That sounds quite lovely, actually. What gender do you identify as?  _

_ I am genderless, _ Dubheasa tells him after a short pause,  _ but I tend to use masculine pronouns. _

_ Oh, that’s quite interesting. Do you ever- _

_ As entertaining as this is for me, Mr. Styles, we should get on with your Sorting. _

_ Oops _ , Harry thinks, chagrined. He’s always been a rambler. Louis would always- oh, and suddenly he doesn’t feel much like talking anymore. _ You may find your Mr. Tomlinson much sooner than you think _ , Dubheasa says, and Harry’s head snaps up, nearly unseating Dubheasa from his head. His fingers are gripping the edges of the chair tightly, white at the knuckles.  _ What do you mean? _ Harry thinks, desperately.  _ Can you see the future? _

_ Not as such. Now, onto your Sorting. Ravenclaw’s out- you have a good head on your shoulders, but you don’t value knowledge above all things. Hmm.  _

Wait, Harry thinks, but Dubheasa is steamrolling on, determined to get through with this.

_ Gryffindor or Hufflepuff, then. Gryffindor- you’ve plenty of courage, I see, and aren’t afraid to risk everything for love. Hufflepuff- you’re loyal to a fault. ‘Treat People With Kindness’, indeed. _

_ Yellow looks nice on me _ , Harry thinks, thinking dully of that yellow suit he’d worn with the lavender necktie oh-so-long-ago.  _ And Robert Pattinson is lovely _ . He pauses, thinking.  _ Although I do like Emma Watson more, between the two. We met up for coffee once.  _

_ Hufflepuff, _ Dubheasa decides, and then raises his- his? Their, maybe? - voice. “HUFFLEPUFF!”

There’s a short silence, and then McGonagall is lifting Dubheasa off of his head. Harry blinks into the sudden brightness- it’s blinding, almost, light rushing in and overwhelming his corneas. There’s a golden glow and people in black robes staring at him, curiously. There’s a silence, hush and shock and oh, right, there was that stereotype about Hufflepuffs being stupid, wasn’t there?

Turning, Harry says: “It was lovely to chat with you, sir,” to Dubheasa and hops off of the platform, turning uncertainly to the table hung with banners of yellow and black. There’s a badger caught mid-snarl, one eye winking in a friendly manner.

The total silence absconds in favor of a thicket of whispers, buzzing and not-too-friendly.  _ Hmph _ , Harry thinks, frowning and taking one step towards the Hufflepuff table, when-

When a figure, tall and curvy and golden and gorgeous and everything Harry has ever wanted compressed in the puzzling rightness of another human being stands. 

Harry blinks, mouth falling open, because he’s seen mirages of Louis before, hovering before him like false-oases and he’s desperately, desperately, thirsty.

“ _ Harry _ .” Mirage-Louis says, voice shaky and perfect, and Harry doesn’t even care if he’s fake or not. Harry doesn’t  _ care _ . 

He’s sprinting across the Great Hall before he knows it- to the table hung with green and silver, Harry thinks absently, so Lou’s a Slytherin, huh? - flinging his child-like body into Louis’ arms. It’s slightly strange, Louis being taller than him, and he smells unfamiliar, like water and strange, rich, perfume, but the feathered edge of his hair, giving way to soft-peach skin at the nape of his neck is the same, and Louis is gathering him closer, arms folding around his body and bringing him closer. 

Louis is murmuring things into his neck, and Harry goes silent, listening. “Harry, oh God,  _ Harry _ , Hazza, baby, sweetheart. Hazza, Hazza, Haz, sunshine, darling,  _ Harry _ , fuck. Christ. Fuck.  _ Darling _ .”

“Lou,” Harry gasps out, teeth digging into Louis’ neck (Louis hisses; catlike, this young body feels like it’s own fire constantly and it’s exhausting in its own way) in a brief teasing nip (and the plush give of Louis’ neck-skin between the rows of his teeth is so familiar he could sob). Disbelief, happiness, shock- it’s like he’s tripped over a lump in the sand and uncovered priceless treasure. There’s the child-careful hesitance in him,  _ what if it’s a dream _ and  _ what if we lose each other, we’ve just found our way back again _ , but that’s- that’s fine.

“Oh, God, Lou.” Harry presses his words into Louis’ earlobe and pulls back. He’s got his legs around Louis’ waist and his arms around Lou’s neck and he’s getting flashbacks to the day they’d gotten put together as a band. Louis had known him all of a few days and he had his legs around Harry’s hips already; Harry had automatically slid his oversized puppy-hands under Louis’ thighs, thinking  _ I can’t drop him _ .

Suddenly, the realization of the Great Hall and their eyes trained in shock on the spectacle- the Golden Boy and the scariest, swaggiest,  _ coolest _ , Slytherin embracing as if they were long lost lovers (which, totally) - comes to Harry. 

He smiles slightly at the familiarity of it all; murmurs “creep” to Louis, and Louis laughs softly, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Don’t care,” Louis murmurs back, presses a kiss to his cheek, and then Louis is setting him down carefully. Harry mourns their closeness, mourns the feel of their bodies pressed close- and then Lou is tucking him close, arm sliding around his waist.

“Come sit.” Louis says, brightly, tugging him to the Slytherin table. Louis is seated next to a dark-skinned, handsome, boy with gold-framed spectacles who reminds Harry of Zayn (thick eyelashes and a godlike jawline) and a pretty, pale girl. She’s staring at them in shock like the rest of the Hall.

“Um,” one of the Slytherins says tentatively (Harry suspects he’s afraid to talk to Louis, and the thought makes Harry grin, proud), “Louis, I don’t think you’re allowed to bring Hufflepuff first years to sit with you, even if they are the Boy Who Lived-”

Louis sighs gustily, rolling his eyes. “Ask me how many shits, I give, Mulberry.”

“It’s- it’s Maxmillian, actually.”

“ _ Ask how many shits I give. _ ”

No response forthcoming, Harry decides to help him out, grinning brightly at Louis. “How many shits, Lou?”

Louis darts a beam at him, vivacious and stunning and delighted. “Thank you, Harold. The answer is:  _ zero _ shits, Mulberry! Nada! No shits to be fucking given, you smarmy cunt of a prefect-”

“ _ Mr. Tomlinson! _ Five points from Slytherin for language.” A professor barks from across the Hall. Harry’s smiling and curling into Louis and everything is, momentarily, right in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in about an hour after a really weird experience in the bath. No I will not explain. I beg of you, do not ask me to write more. I probably will eventually. subscribe or whatever, but um. PLEASE LEAVE COMMENTS. i love you.
> 
> p.s. if you really want to read another hogwarts larry au read this one 
> 
> [ here ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121275)


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